Page 24 of What a Scot Wants
Her lips parted, and a wisp of breath beat against his neck. “Why?”
“For our engagement ball, mutton chop. Perhaps it should be in London now. Four or five weeks hence, I think. I cannae have a ball without my betrothed, now can I? If ye call off the ball, I’ll take that as a severing of the engagement as well.”
Imogen clenched her jaw, nostrils flaring in ire. He had her, and she knew it.
As much as he despised London himself, he suspected it would gouge her even more to leave Haven and the work she was doing here for an entire month. Enough to capitulate and be rid of him once and for all? One could only hope.
On his brief tour of Haven, he’d noticed that while they didn’t lack for much, things were in need of repair. Imogen was wealthy, he knew, and losing her inheritance to the forfeit would be a blow to this place. Perhaps he could offer a donation in lieu.
“Will ye come with me to London?”
Walk away, he pleaded silently.
But Imogen lifted her chin, eyes flashing with temper. “How could I refuse?”
Ronan ground his teeth. The stubborn littleamadan. He knew she was agreeing out of sheer bullishness. It was obvious she did not want to leave and resented him for making her do so. He could see it in the tense line of her jaw, the curl of her fingers into fists, but still she resisted. Still she fought.
“Easy. Say nae.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did we read the same betrothal agreement, you clodpole?”
“Ye dunnae want to marry me. Or go to London. Here’s yer chance.”
“You must think me weak and stupid. Well, think again.” Imogen rose to the tips of her toes and squared her chin in defiance, her nose almost butting into his. “Yes, you vile man, I’ll go to London with you.”
And by God, Ronan lost his mind. Because before Imogen could land back onto the flats of her heels, he’d crushed his mouth to hers.
The soft velvet of her lips reached into him, silencing his brain and stilling time. Imogen’s mouth parted on a delayed gasp of surprise, and the world went tumbling forward again. Ronan froze, aware and yet utterly paralyzed. He hadn’t meant to kiss her…but her scent had filled his nostrils, and the heat of her body had risen with her temper, and that lush, caustic mouth of hers had taunted him to indecency.
He nudged his mouth against hers, licking at the seam of her lips—and felt the warm, wet tip of her tongue dart out to touch his. The tentative stroke, accompanied by another soft gasp, shot through to Ronan’s brain and obliterated any sense still left between his ears. She hadn’t slapped at him or screamed and shoved him away.
No, shewantedthis as much as he did.
Ronan reached around her slim waist and dragged her up against his chest, the yielding softness of her breasts making the tight coil in his groin deepen. He answered her foray with one of his own, drawing his tongue along her lower lip in a slow caress before parting her to him. He tipped her chin so he could better angle his mouth and tasted her more fully. He devoured the tang of black tea along with the sweet savor of her, and when her hesitant tongue finally surged forward and welcomed his, Ronan swallowed her soft whimper of pleasure. Her lithe body slumped against him, and he wrapped his hands around her hips to lift her from the floor.
“Ronan,” she gasped as he seated her on the edge of her desk, knocking a stack of books in the process. In some distant part of his mind, he heard them tumble, but his mouth was already on hers again, tugging her bottom lip into his mouth.
God, he couldn’t get enough. He bit at her lips, groaning when she mimicked his motions, taking his and nipping for good measure, before soothing with her own tongue. She kissed as she sparred with words, with passion and fire, though her technique lacked the finesse that came with experience. The thought pleased him, but the why of it escaped him. Ronan was too far gone to care by that point.
Her fingers delved into his hair, tugging at the strands and hanging on as the kiss became something…more. No longer exploratory but possessive. He ran his hands up her sides, feeling the curves of her spine, her ribs, the generous swells of her breasts under his thumbs as they swept slowly over them, catching and pausing on the hardened peaks of her nipples.
This woman, she drove him mad, and it wasn’t rational, it wasn’t wise, and it sure as hell wasn’t strategic genius, but he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. And when Imogen’s knees fell apart, allowing him to step closer, between her trembling thighs, a boulder of understanding struck him right on the head. She didn’t want to stop, either.
Christ, he was supposed to be repulsing her, not tempting her. Not tempting himself.
Stop.
Ronan released her in a rush, pushing himself away and turning at the same time.
“A little sampling of what ye can expect in London,” he said, his voice too thick and shaken for his liking. He cleared his throat and pretended to adjust the cuffs on his jacket, feigning calm.
Imogen shoved off the desk with an angry grunt, glaring daggers at him. Her lips were rosy, the bottom one especially so from where he’d sucked it into his mouth. Ronan dragged his gaze away.
“I’ll send word about the arrangements,” he said, turning to leave.
Or escape, really. Before he did more he would regret. Like shoving her skirts up, bending her over that desk, and giving them what they both wanted.
Ronan swallowed hard, his blood on fire.
